Nicotine And Hope- Mystrade
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: This is NOT a repost of my story "Nicotine," but an entirely independent, unrelated work. Workaholic Mycroft realizes he's lonely, and a chance encounter with Greg Lestrade makes him realize he wants more in his life. Greg, who also happens to be lonely, certainly isn't opposed to the idea of helping him unwind... Focus on Mystrade. I OWN NOTHING.


It was an unprecedented occasion, and so had taken everyone by surprise, not least Mycroft Holmes himself, despite the fact that he'd orchestrated the entire thing. Even as he sat in John Watson's armchair, waiting for his brother and the good doctor to wake so he could talk with them, his mind was far afield, scanning over the events of the morning and wondering how on earth it had happened.

Mycroft Holmes, the "minor government official" who in fact virtually _ran_ the government himself, had realized abruptly, in the middle of a meeting about a nuclear strike you-can't-know-where designed to do away with you-can't-know-who, that he was tired of it. He had no life, outside of work and cleaning up after Sherlock, and it actually horrified him to know that, despite his claims of not wanting or needing companionship, he was likely to die alone, and no one would really care.

Sure, there was Sherlock, who would show up and grieve in his own way, but they weren't what anyone would call _close_ by any stretch of the imagination. Outside of him, however, there was only a long chain of assistants and subordinates, and he doubted any of them would shed a tear for him. The ones who'd survived had often done so with various injuries, and though he'd always taken care to make sure they were well settled and could afford whatever life style they'd grown accustomed to, there had been no personal attachment. There had always been the understanding that their survival had been a happy fluke, and drawing the short straw and risking one's life for the coldest man in Britain had often embittered them.

Which was why he was here, he supposed. It wasn't his typical reason for visiting, but he'd given himself an entire week off, starting the very next day, and wasn't at all sure how to fill it. It wasn't as if there was a guide for learning how to relax like a normal person, after all, and John was the person closest to normal that Mycroft knew. An outsider might not have seen this as bizarre, but Mycroft knew the hidden layers under those frankly hideous jumpers, and understood that the former army doctor fit the bill nearly as badly as Sherlock. He was simply much, much better at hiding it than the rest of them.

It only meant, of course, that he was the ideal person to give Mycroft advice. He was holding onto the hope that perhaps by the end of the week, he might at least have been able to take a few breaths without wondering which shoe was going to drop next. It would be a small blessing for the man who'd been micromanaging his ever-expanding world since about age 15, when the Holmes brothers had lost their parents.

Mycroft frowned as he heard heavy, nearly defeated footsteps coming up the stairs. It wasn't like Sherlock and John to have visitors—they were notorious for demanding their privacy when off cases, and weren't the kind of couple who attracted friends like flies—so it was strange to realize they had anyone who might stop in besides him. He listened for a second, sorting through their acquaintances and, after a moment taken to reconcile the mournfulness in each heavy footfall, he deduce that the visitor was none other than Gregory Lestrade, the tall, handsome DI whose way of dealing with Sherlock had so caught him off guard, once upon a time.

He'd never met Mycroft, of course. No, Sherlock's big brother had only ever watched their interactions from the shadows he loved so much, relying on CCTV and the occasional man sent to watch Sherlock. He'd been astounded to realize that the cop, who could as easily have thrown Sherlock in jail, had been smart enough to instead help him get free of his addiction, turning what should have been just another encounter with a junkie into the acquisition of an asset. And though Sherlock's behavior had in those days been even less pleasant than it was today, Greg had proved an unwavering wall that, no matter how many times he crashed headlong against it with the intent to destroy, had stayed unbroken.

This was an admirable man, and Mycroft had admired very few people in his life. His ambitions meant that those who could hold any sort of interest for him were those who commanded power, or had some special quirk that made command unnecessary. Unfortunately, he also tended to lose interest as soon as the blind was torn away, revealing that it all hung on a few thin threads. He'd never needed to "borrow" this man, and indeed, had hoped he never would have to. The last thing he needed was another reason to be disillusioned.

But now that he was here, and his usual calm determination had obviously slipped from his shoulders, Mycroft felt something strange. Instead of the usual scorn that flooded in, what he felt was _sympathy_. Whatever case he was working was surely not beyond the DI's ability to handle, mentally and emotionally, but his footsteps indicated he'd been at it for far too long, and something in that resonated in the government man.

All of these thoughts passed in little more than a second, and then the door was opening to reveal the slightly older man, the light from the window shattering on his hair and making it gleam silver and gold both for a moment before he closed the door, turned, and stepped into the shadows. Only _then_ did he notice Mycroft, and he instantly drew his weapon. He remembered what had happened the last time John had told him about a stranger sitting with such familiarity in their living room.

Mycroft merely raised a hand, even as he heard the first sleepy stirrings of John and Sherlock in the bedroom they shared on the bottom floor of their flat. It was somewhere between a wave and an acknowledgment, but it was whatever Greg saw in his eyes that had him putting his piece away and walking over, extending one strong, lightly tanned hand to shake.

"I'm Greg Lestrade, and since you don't look much like the kind of guy who runs around lighting fires all the time, I'll assume you're not here to kill Sherlock and John."

"Mycroft Holmes. Pleasure to meet you at last, Gregory." Even though he heard the near purr in his voice, Mycroft seemed unable to help himself where it concerned the cop, at least for the moment. He was attractive without trying to be, friendly without being overbearing, and strangely amusing. All these things he'd known, but he only felt the full impact of them now, meeting face to face. And though he was adept at lying to the world, he preferred not to lie to himself.

"Err… Right." To say he felt awkward was an understatement. His day really wasn't going well, and he could only wonder if it was going to just keep getting worse. Would he spill his coffee in his crotch? Would the light drizzle turn into a storm, and lightning strike him down? First, Sherlock hadn't answered his bloody phone, which meant Greg's bosses had put _him_ through the ringer regarding the current case, and if that wasn't bad enough, he'd come to personally see to it that Sherlock and John got on the case and finished the damn thing, and he had to run into Sherlock's devastatingly attractive older brother.

He'd never met Mycroft, but had heard enough stories to know well what the man could do. With a few well-chosen words, he could topple empires, and no one had told Greg that he was every bit as attractive as Sherlock, in his own way. He seemed to recall the consulting detective saying he was fat, actually, and that was clearly not the case. It was all he could do to not stare blatantly, and knowing how easily Sherlock could dissect him from a single glance, he could only imagine what the more experienced version could do. He was just glad he wasn't blushing.

Mycroft was having a hard time reading the situation, which was strange for him. Greg didn't seem intimidated by him, exactly, but he definitely seemed nervous. But why, Mycroft couldn't say.

"If you're concerned that my brother will walk out here and expect you to speak with him nude, you needn't worry. He wouldn't embarrass himself or John Watson like that, not while I am here, and he already knows I'm here."

"How could you possibly… never mind." Greg realized about halfway through that it was pointless to question a Holmes on his deduction—from the look Mycroft was giving him, which looked at least partially like amusement, he and Sherlock shared the talent of reading people—and quickly decided to attempt to abandon conversation at all. It worked swimmingly until Mycroft decided to speak again.

"I know because he woke up approximately seventeen minutes, twenty four seconds ago, and has simply been avoiding the two of us, watching John sleep."

"Must be nice, being that intimate with someone." The words had flown out before Greg could stop them, and he had to suppress a wince at how much of a bad pick-up line they'd sounded like. It hadn't been his intent, but intent probably didn't matter. Instead of smiling knowingly like Sherlock would have, however, Mycroft simply nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, I suppose you are correct. But then, you would know what it's like, and so would probably appreciate the lack of it more."

It might have been an insult, and would have been, from anyone else, but from Mycroft it seemed more like a confession, and an observation, all rolled into one. And it was an intriguing statement, so much so that Greg decided to quit being embarrassed and just see if he could manage to make a somewhat decent impression on this man. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to see him again at some point. It was an absurd idea, but tempting enough to merit a try anyway.

"I suppose so. But then, at least I can turn to the memories. I do still have those. Have you tried making memories of your own, Mycroft?" Greg could barely believe himself, and honestly expected Mycroft to shoot him a scornful look and tell him it was none of his business, at the least.

"No, and it has only very recently occurred to me that that may well have been a mistake. I have spent far too much time devoting my life to other people, and realized this morning, actually, how little I have received in return."

"Well, then maybe you should take something for yourself." It hadn't been meant as an offer, exactly, but as soon as he said it Greg knew he wouldn't mind if it was taken as one. But Mycroft seemed to have no clue what he was suggesting, and maybe, just maybe, that was for the best.

Just then, Sherlock came out of the bedroom wearing a dressing gown, took one look at the two of them, and scowled.

"Stop flirting. It's disgusting." With that, he walked further into the room and promptly collapsed into his own chair, across from his brother, while John walked out dressed in jeans and a jumper, rolling his eyes at his partner and smiling in a friendly way at the DI. The expression wavered a little for Mycroft, then firmed up again.

"Sorry about him. Would the two of you like tea? We'd have been out earlier, but Sherlock didn't wake me to tell me we had company. And _don't be rude to make them feel awkward, _Sherlock."

"I wasn't attempting to make them feel awkward. I would just prefer that, if they wanted to carry on in some sort of attempt at engaging in fornication with each other, they ought not do it in our flat." John snorted at this, even as he prepared and brought out steaming mugs of tea for all four of them, no matter that Sherlock was kind of being a jerk. Then, as he glanced over Greg and Mycroft's faces, he nearly froze, realizing they both looked a little uncomfortable, and certainly weren't looking at each other.

John subtly turned to sit on the couch so neither could see his face, but Sherlock could, and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock mouthed "later," and John decided it would have to do.

"So what brings the two of you here at this hour of the morning?"

"Gregory requires Sherlock's help for a case, and I require your help, John."

"My help?" John asked, expression a little blank. "What on earth could you need my help for? Don't your minions, as Sherlock likes to call them, see to any need you might possibly have?" Realizing that could be taken wrong in a great many ways, John rushed on. "Unless there's someone you need me to do surgery on quietly or something."

"Aah, no. I was only wondering if you might be able to point me in the right direction. I've given myself a vacation, and find that I am uncertain what to do with my newfound time. I know only that I have no desire to return to the office until I've found at least some measure of personal peace, and thought you might be able to offer up suggestions. What do normal people do to relax?"

"Well, there are lots of different things." John noticed Sherlock not so subtly demanding Lestrade take him to the crime scene, leaving them alone to discuss. Sherlock had obviously realized that John was going to try and play matchmaker, and though he would undoubtedly roll his eyes about it, was going along with it in order to make him happy. The doctor still wasn't quite used to those simple gestures of caring, but wasn't going to grow to take them for granted.

"You might try relaxing with someone. That's usually the best way. Do you have any sort of significant other, or someone you'd like to be yours? You could whisk him or her away on a romantic vacation if you feel close enough, or shoot for something closer to home, like a date. But if you think that would be too stressful for you, I can suggest other things, though they probably won't be quite as effective."

Mycroft studied John's face for a moment, then unexpectedly started to chuckle.

"I see my brother has taught you how to cleverly manipulate people, Dr. Watson." John had the good grace to look a little embarrassed at this, and then Mycroft sighed, steepling his fingers in a gesture reminiscent of Sherlock in his thinking pose. John wondered which brother had picked it up from which.

"Do you think that I should attempt to pursue Gregory, then, Dr. Watson? It is… He is an intriguing person, but I don't know how to do any of this. I never had the inclination, if we're being honest, and wouldn't have the first clue where to begin. I do not even know how to gauge his interest. No matter how inexperienced in this area my brother was, at least he knew how to tell _that_. I didn't even realize I was lonely until today."

"Okay. Well, the first thing is, you should always be honest. It doesn't matter who you're trying to end up with, man or woman. If he or she is a good person, honesty is the best way to get a positive response. Make your interest clear, but not obnoxious, and as long as you're polite about it, even a negative answer wouldn't get you punched or anything. And if you want a bonus tip… I doubt that Greg will turn you down. And it's not because he's not been with someone for a while and wants a quick and easy time, or anything like that. He seemed like he was interested in you." John looked a little puzzled by it, but Mycroft supposed he deserved that.

"Perhaps so. And believe me, I've no idea why, either." Mycroft's tone held a wealth of amusement, even a little self-mockery, and John realized that no matter what his first impression had been, or how bad Sherlock's relationship was with his brother, Mycroft wasn't a bad guy. The same arrogance he admired in Sherlock he seemed to dislike in Mycroft, but maybe it was time for that to be over.

"You aren't a bad guy, Mycroft. You're actually one of the good guys, which Greg is bound to respect. The only problem is that you come across as someone who genuinely doesn't care about other people, as long as you get what you want. I don't believe you _are_ like that, but it's what you let the world see. Hell, it's _all_ you let the world see. If you want Greg to like you, try being genuine around him. I can only imagine you were this morning, or else he'd likely have been spitting mad when we came out instead of trying not to smile. Maybe you need your 'Ice Prince' camouflage between you and the rest of the world, but you'll need to keep it out of any sort of relationship if you want it to succeed. No one wants to feel like they don't matter."

John, Mycroft knew, would know that from experience. Fortunately, the doctor had been able to find the courage to say how he felt, which had allowed Sherlock to look inside himself and realize that the heart he'd never imagined he possessed was there, beating strongly, for the quiet, unassuming army doctor who'd made a permanent home there.

"What do I do to make him feel… like he matters?" It was dangerously close to a confession, but Mycroft knew John had seen enough to draw the right conclusions, and didn't see a point in trying to hide things, as a result.

"Court him. I don't know. Ask him on a date, maybe if that goes well invite him back to your place. But it's really the little things. Caring about his day—not just asking about it and ignoring him while he describes it, but actually listening—and asking his opinion on things instead of just doing what you feel like and pretending he doesn't have thoughts and feelings about it. If something matters to him, pay attention to it. Don't try and manipulate him, or go overboard and smother him, and everything should go okay. On a situation-by-situation basis, you can always come and ask me for advice if you need it, or talk things through with him. I'm sure he'll be sympathetic if you explain to him that this is your first attempt at this."

The information that had just been dumped on him could easily have overwhelmed the politician, but he simply sorted it and filed it as it came, and nodded at the end, certain he understood everything John had said, and that he was likely to cock up absolutely every piece of advice, just by following the first part, to be himself. But he supposed that wasn't really John's fault, and so stood, offered his hand to shake, and then headed for the door. He had plans to make.

"You know, Lestrade, my dear brother wouldn't say no if you were to proposition him." Sherlock remarked this as calmly as if he were talking about the weather while the two of them crouched over a body, and Greg was grateful he hadn't been sipping coffee, or it would have ended up all over the corpse Sherlock had nearly finished deducing.

"Excuse me?" He managed weakly, not at all sure what to say. Sherlock simply looked at him, interest obviously not on the rather interesting murder Greg had offered him.

"First of all, it's not interesting. It's quite clear the daughter-in-law did it. Second, Mycroft expressed all the same signs of interest that you yourself did, leading me to conclude that if you were arrive at his home tonight, say with a nice bottle of wine and an offer of companionship for a few hours, you would end up in bed together, and probably both enjoy yourself once you tutored him. Now, can you get your mind off him and back onto the case, please? I'm about to be brilliant."

Sherlock proceeded to make deductions that were, in fact, brilliant, even if his tone was that of someone begging to be punched. Then, when he went to grab a taxi—leaving Greg to make the arrest and do the paperwork, of course—he offered up one more comment.

"He is terribly lonely, he just hadn't seen it until he saw you this morning. You might be good for him. And while I'm not at all sure he would be good for you, I can't say that with any degree of certainty. So there is that."

Sherlock sauntered off then, got a cab with little more effort than a flick of his wrist, and zoomed off toward Baker Street, leaving Greg with a choice. About the time he realized he'd already made it, moments later, his phone beeped at him rather insistently. He pulled it out, only to laugh at the fact that he had received a text, from Sherlock, with an address as the only content.

Shaking his head a little at himself, Greg just decided to go for it. Then he turned his attention back to his job, figuring that it was better to have his head in the game now, so he could have his full attention on what he was doing—or, hopefully, who—later.

A couple hours of interviews, condolence calls, and wrap-ups, as well as four hours of paperwork later, and the DI was stretching and yawning, wondering if he shouldn't have asked John to come help him. But Mycroft had seemed to need the assistance more than him, though Greg had no idea how a man could live past age twenty and have no clue how to relax, and so he'd not bothered to call. Asking Sherlock for help would have been an exercise in both frustration and failure, and he didn't trust Donovan or Anderson to file his papers, let alone help write his reports.

So there he was, leaving New Scotland Yard long after dark, when it occurred to him that he still had Mycroft's address. He decided to head over, maybe offer his help in Mycroft's quest to relax, and see where things went from there. On the way, he grabbed a six pack of beer, figuring it couldn't hurt even though Mycroft was probably more used to fine wines, and texted Sherlock to make sure there weren't any security measures that would electrocute, maim, or otherwise harm him. He received no response, of course.

Sighing and deciding to bite the bullet, Greg walked up to the door of the frankly massive residence and knocked, wondering if anyone would hear it. There was no doorbell, unfortunately, which meant he could very well be standing there knocking for quite some time.

But a rather surprised looking Mycroft answered the door almost before Greg could lower his hand, standing in a suit—obviously he hadn't yet gotten to the point of relaxing— with a wine glass in hand and his feet bare.

"Aah, hello. I was just in the neighborhood, and since I caught enough earlier to know that you're trying to relax, I thought you might like some help with that. Beer usually works."

Mycroft, who hadn't planned to start his courtship of the cop until the next day, was completely unsure what to do with this turn of events. He fell back on the basics, which had been drilled into him.

"Won't you come in, then? It would hardly be polite of me to leave you on the stoop if you've gone to such trouble." Mycroft couldn't help the way the words were just a little too stiff, as nerves had begun to take hold of him, but Greg didn't seem to notice, smiling and accepting the invitation. He hung his own coat neatly and shucked off his shoes by the door without needing to be told, and then stood there, waiting.

"Perhaps we should put whatever isn't being drunk in the refrigerator?" Mycroft hazarded a guess that cold beer was probably better than warm, and Greg chuckled, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"This is supposed to help you relax, Mycroft, not make you more uptight. Don't think so much. Just… I don't know. Try and enjoy." Neither man would be sure, later, whether it was the words or the alcohol he'd already consumed that triggered it, but Mycroft took the advice very quickly, and leaned forward and impulsively kissed Greg full on the mouth. Then he spun around, grabbing the beer, and practically fled to the kitchen.

The DI remained in the foyer for a moment, hand coming up to touch his lips gently, wondering why he felt like he'd just experienced a rather pleasant case of whiplash. And then he headed in the direction Mycroft had gone, thinking that if he could manage to keep him from overthinking it all, they might just both end up relaxing that night.

"I haven't any bottle openers for this sort of thing, I'm afraid." Mycroft started to babble almost as soon as Greg appeared in the kitchen, and though it was strangely endearing, part of the appeal of the man was his typical together-ness, and so Greg decided he needed to make things a little easier for them both.

It wasn't a calculated move, but then, Greg was pretty sure there was enough rapid calculation going on in the room for one night. He took the beer from Mycroft, put most of it in the fridge, set one bottle on the counter for himself, and then turned around and kissed the politician.

Mycroft froze as his thoughts scattered in all directions until he wasn't doing much thinking at all, only experiencing. And then he decided, with one last little train of thought, that maybe it wasn't so bad to not be in control all the time, and promptly gave up even the illusion of it as he let Greg simply take him over, somehow maneuvering him into being pressed between the counter and that long, still muscular body that showed his line of work in the most flattering way.

Of course, Mycroft wasn't actually looking, or even really admiring. He'd never known this feeling before, where his stomach was full of twitching, undulating lava, and his hands were shaky and uncoordinated, and his breath was coming in gasps that sounded loud even to his own ears, when the sound wasn't captured by another, harder pair of lips than his own. It was overwhelming all his senses, and for a man who was always in control, with never so much as a hair out of place, it was… _Terrifying. Exquisite. _

"If this is what you do when I kiss you, I can only imagine the sounds you'll make when I'm inside you." Greg whisper-growled the words against Mycroft's neck, after undoing the first few buttons of his shirt and tugging it aside, before taking a quick nip. He wasn't quite sure whether the resulting moan was due to the words or to the bite, but he quickly decided to figure that out later. Sucking hard enough to leave a mark, where a shirt collar could technically cover it, Greg decided to move on, knowing if he didn't keep Mycroft distracted, he was likely to get nervous again, and that simply wouldn't do. Not when those hands, trembling a little, were nonetheless clinging to the back of his shirt, shaping his muscles in a way that suggested there was a little more strength than expected beneath those pretty suits.

Speaking of, Greg thought to himself with a wicked grin against that pale throat, what remained of that suit really had to go. The rest of the shirt buttons were easy enough, but then it was a matter of getting him out of the shirt without breaking more than a minimum of contact.

Moving back to Mycroft's mouth, Greg nipped and sucked on his lips and tongue while pulling him one step forward, just enough to shove the tidy button-down off his shoulders. It hit the floor nearly soundlessly, proof of its quality, before Greg was moving in again, inadvertently brushing their hips together.

They both groaned at this bit of contact, and Greg knew he had already won the battle when Mycroft tore his mouth away long enough to bite out one simple word, a word that sealed the deal and sent a surge of blind lust tearing through both of them before they fumbled their way out of the kitchen and toward the stairs.

"_Bedroom_." It was a growl, a verbal caress, and a promise, and it rang in Greg's ears even as Mycroft reached behind himself to open the door, practically dragging the DI in with him. Not that he needed dragged. At the moment, he'd have followed Mycroft anywhere, as long as _didn't stop touching him_.

There didn't seem to be any threat of that, though. His own shirt was off him before he was even quite aware of it, and he felt like a randy teenager when those blunt, short fingernails dragged down his back. Greg had never had a problem with the fact that men and women were equally appealing to him, and he'd had several sets of nails mark his back over the years, though none with quite so much enthusiasm in recent years. Never before had it touched off sparks of fire that burned quite so hot, and he didn't have long to ponder that because Mycroft was shoving his trousers down his hips and then disposing of his own, leaving the two of them in just their pants.

Mycroft definitely wasn't shy anymore, and it was clear to Greg that he was acting exclusively on instinct. Despite that, he seemed much happier than when the cop had met him just that morning, if the low laugh he let out when he claimed another nearly vicious kiss was any indication.

"This is incredible." Not sure whether it was a comment on his prowess or simply the fact that the politician was logging a new experience, but either way, it was encouraging. So he chose to take it as a compliment, and gave in to the need to slip his hand inside that last article of clothing and close his hand around the other man's rather impressive length, earning a strangled yelp.

"Is it, now?" Greg inquired teasingly, moving his hand in favor of removing those silk pants and practically tossing Mycroft back on the plush bed, where he lay back on the pillows and looked at Greg with eyes dark and blown wide with pleasure. The sight was entirely too irresistible, and so he didn't try to resist, disposing of that last cloth barrier and following him down. When their now bared bodies touched, the government man let out a sound that was very nearly a whimper and arched against the cop, enjoying the way his skin very nearly sizzled at the contact.

"If it's not as good for you as it is for me, one of us has a problem." The statement was very nearly flirty, and Greg had to suppress the urge to gape. He hadn't imagined the politician knew _how_ to flirt, hadn't guessed he even knew there _was_ such a thing as flirting, but it seemed he was going to be continually surprised by this man.

"Sex has never interested me before today, Gregory, but I am accustomed to using every tool at my disposal to get what I want. I am not as attractive as my brother, but power is its own lure. Having the right words can accomplish much, but this is the first time I've felt compelled to put my money where my mouth is, so to speak."

Since he was pretty used to Sherlock reading his mind, he'd already taken for granted that Mycroft would be able to do the same. And instead of finding it offensive or discomforting, Greg was actually glad Mycroft was with him enough to be able to use that obviously brilliant mind of his. Part of the fun of it was knowing that they were both making informed, adult decisions, not simply getting caught up in a wave with no idea what to do about it.

"Well, I'm okay with you just using your mouth." Greg flirted back with a mischievous grin before moving down Mycroft's body, pausing with his mouth just above the younger man's rather insistent erection. "Or maybe I'll just use mine." And then he did, sucking and licking and setting a rhythm, bobbing up and down until hands tangled themselves in his thick silver hair, and he heard a gasped warning.

"I would happily finish you off like this," he pointed out, watching those eyes dilate even more before Mycroft, seemingly reluctantly, shook his head.

"That doesn't seem incredibly fair to you, and in the interest of being honest, I'd be rather embarrassed to come like a teenager while not having touched you yet." Mycroft had decided to take a little of John's advice from earlier, and was grateful there was a bit of it that he _could_ take, despite the way most of his plans had gone sideways. Apparently it was good advice, because Greg chuckled and made his way back up to kiss Mycroft.

"Okay, then. How would you like to do this?" Greg was rocking his hips almost lazily against Mycroft's while he spoke, making it rather difficult for him to form any kind of answer. After a few moments, however, he managed to get words out.

"I've never done this before, so… whatever you prefer, I suppose."

"Honestly, I don't have a preference. But for your first time… How about you take me? And we'll go from there." Greg was really, really hoping their experience wasn't going to be a one-off—he hadn't had this much fun in a very, very long time—and knew that he needed to make it clear to Mycroft that he didn't expect to be in charge of everything. He'd held the reins so far, but wanted the other man to feel comfortable with reciprocating. There was a better chance that they might just work, that way.

Mycroft knew exactly what Greg was doing, and it was an oddly comforting thing. So much so that he was actually smiling before he realized he didn't have lube. He certainly hadn't had this in the plans for that night, or even the next, and hadn't had a need for it recreationally.

"I brought lube. I wasn't sure, but I was hoping. Do you want to prepare me, or shall I? It's fine either way." He hoped that his new lover wouldn't be shy about learning, for future knowledge, and wasn't disappointed.

"Let me. I think it's only fair I reciprocate. I haven't done much of that yet." Mycroft blushed a little with the confession, and Greg only shrugged as he left the bed just long enough to fetch the sachet of lube from his trouser pocket, along with a condom.

"It's enough for one round. I didn't want to tempt fate, you see." He handed the lube over but kept the condom wrapper, taking the pleasure of rolling it over Mycroft himself. The younger man groaned, closing his eyes and quivering a little with the effort of holding his own needs back.

After several seconds of not being touched, he finally felt confident that he could move without exploding. Slowly, he sat up, gesturing for Greg to take his former position. He did so on his stomach, knowing the angle would be a little easier for them both. He stayed relaxed even as those hesitant, slicked fingers began exploring, already trusting Mycroft to not hurt him.

It was slow and lazy, in contrast to the events that had led up to it. Where before, they'd been all hands and teeth and tongues, they practically melted together to a soundtrack of gentle sighs and whispers. When Mycroft slipped carefully inside they moved together, taking their time, enjoying the slick slide of skin on skin. There was a simple sort of elegance to it, and they held an effortless rhythm until their heated blood thickened and neither could hold on any longer. Mycroft, unsurprisingly, was the first to succumb, but Greg was very nearly right behind him, those aristocratic hands stroking him quickly to completion within only a few breaths.

Even afterward, the world was soft and thickly coated by the glow of passion, and they exchanged only a few words as a flannel was brought into things to clean them both off. Then they drifted into sleep, for once both unplagued by the nightmares that too often haunted them both.

When morning found the pair, the light was muted, filtering through the curtains and occasionally passing beyond them when a gentle breeze slipped through the half-opened glass panes. Mycroft was the first to stir, but instead of becoming nervous or frightened again, he found himself smiling. Muscles he hadn't even acknowledged were tense had relaxed during the night, and he felt oddly weightless, floating in the cool half-light for once instead of swimming against a fast rushing current.

"Good morning," he whispered when Greg woke several minutes later, watching the way he woke slowly, eyelids twitching and flickering open and closed rapidly before finally remaining open, a huge, disarmingly open smile on his face when he turned to look at Mycroft. The expression was breathtakingly genuine, and it did, in fact, steal his breath. _He'd_ put that look on that handsome face, and for the first time in his life, he felt… whole.

"Great morning, actually, by the looks of things. My phone didn't even wake me up in the middle of the night, for which I can only be grateful." Greg stretched, then, a slow, sensual play of muscles beneath tanned skin, and Mycroft realized to his great pleasure that he could _watch_, freely. He had the right to do that. And so he did, letting his eyes sweep up and down and take it all in, right back up to the now very amused look on the DI's face.

"I take it you sleep about as often as I typically do?" Mycroft refused to feel embarrassed for having admired—he really did figure he was entitled, after the night before—and Greg seemed pleased by this, if the gleam in his eyes was any sort of indication.

"That's one of the reasons I got that divorce a couple years back. The wife complained that I spent all my time at the Yard, and that it was the only thing I was capable of loving."

Mycroft made what he hoped was a sympathetic noise, but Greg only chuckled and shook his head.

"No worries. I've been over it for a while, and anyway, I understand now that it really had nothing to do with me. She needed a reason to resent me so she could find some way to rationalize, to herself, the breaking of the vows we made to each other. She honestly just wanted to screw other people, and in some ways, she was probably right. I'm not sure I had really loved her for a long time by the time I found out she was spending most of her nights in other beds, too. She didn't understand me, and had no inclination to, so I quit trying."

"You have a demanding job, one that you clearly love very much, to keep doing it despite everything. Homicide is not an easy division, and the last thing you need is a partner who doesn't support you." The words were true, though far more sentimental than Mycroft normally allowed himself to be, and he knew he couldn't blame the wine he'd ingested the night before for that. Any effects it might have had on him would have occurred the night before. He decided to blame the intimacy of waking up next to someone else for the unusual behavior.

"That's true. And I think she was more in love with the idea of being a cop's wife than she ever was with me. I always felt like she'd expected it to be more glamorous, more like it is on the telly, and was disappointed almost from the first. But I guess that's how it goes, when you cling to dreams even after they're dead. They keep hurting you until you let them go."

The words hit Mycroft with unexpected force, and he realized that this man, this seemingly ordinary cop, might actually understand the world far better than it seemed. He might even have a shot at understanding _him_, which was something he'd always considered impossible. Suddenly, a world of opportunities was opening up in front of him, and he wasn't at all sure how to deal with that.

"If you want, I can arrange it so your phone won't be bothering you for today. Or even the rest of the week." He hadn't expected to make the offer, but didn't have any problems with the fact that he had. His instincts had always served him well, and even though this was an area in which he had no experience at all, he had no reason to believe they would fail him. He'd walked through uncharted territory a thousand times before with the confidence of a battle-scarred veteran, and this would be no exception, now that he'd made his mind up.

"I… Does that mean you're inviting me to crash your vacation?" Greg's voice held a wealth of amusement, and Mycroft found himself chuckling a little even as he rose, modesty inspiring him to pull the sheet with him and wrap it around himself as his brother had done several years ago at Buckingham Palace, to his mortification.

"I suppose so, if you wish. You've managed to make it a much more successful endeavor already, so it would seem a good idea. And you would get a free vacation out of it." Despite pointing out the main perk of it, Mycroft really wanted Greg to say yes because he _wanted_ to say yes, not because the pros outweighed the cons. Still, he wasn't quite sure he would, yet, so he had to sweeten the deal, make it irresistible.

Almost as if he was reading his mind, Greg shot him a curious look, even as he rose and tugged his jeans on. His pants, Mycroft noticed, stayed on the floor. He swallowed.

"You know, you could just say 'Greg, I want you to spend the week with me. Do you want to?' Or something like that. This isn't a business negotiation." Mycroft winced at the description and cursed himself for even bringing up the thought at all. He'd just turned away to retrieve his own clothes, as well as hide his embarrassment and the hint of hurt, when he felt one of those strong hands on his shoulder, bare where the sheet had slipped.

"That wasn't an insult, Mycroft. Just an observation. You don't have to bargain with me. I showed up last night because I wanted to. I'm here this morning because I want to be. It's not out of some misplaced sense of guilt for taking your virginity or anything like that. I'm here because I've chosen to be, because you interest me and fascinate me and I find I'm attracted to more than just your body. So don't think you have to negotiate with me like you would one of your associates at work. There's a different dynamic here. I'm much more likely to stick around if I simply know you want me here. No more buttering up required than that."

Not knowing what to say to this, Mycroft kept quiet, taking his cue from Greg and not bothering with his pants. He tugged on his trousers and shirt as well, not quite confident enough to walk around with no shirt on yet, and turned the words over in his mind as they made their way down to the kitchen.

"Breakfast, then?" Mycroft let himself stay on autopilot while he worked things through in his own head, and Greg, knowing this process well from his time as Sherlock's "keeper," simply nodded and, picking up the bottle of beer they'd abandoned on the counter the night before, exchanged it for a cold one from the fridge. This one he popped open and took a sip of, choosing to ignore the convention that said it was definitely a bad idea to start consuming alcohol before noon. He might well need it for the conversation they were going to have when the politician climbed back out of his head.

They eaten and had moved to the living room, and had been there for at least half an hour, by the time Mycroft spoke again. Greg hadn't made much progress on his beer, so it sat mostly full on the coffee table in front of them where they sat together on the luxuriant sofa.

"I'm uncertain that I am capable of stopping with the formalities so quickly, Gregory. Last night was… delightful, so do not take it wrong when I say that for me, it was an aberration. I have been conditioned, and have conditioned myself, to act a certain way, think a certain way, and _be_ a certain way for most of my life. It would be unfair of you to request that I change such a significant aspect of who I am overnight, even simply in this context. That will take time, if it is in fact ever going to happen."

Greg blinked, and took a slow sip of his beer. Then, deciding that wasn't going to do it, fished the half-crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, lit one up, and took a long drag, closing his eyes to savor it. When he opened them again, Mycroft was looking not at him, but at the cigarette. Not sure whether he'd just offended the man or not, Greg decided to let it go for a minute and address his words instead.

"That's actually quite reasonable, I guess. Is there more to it?" With Sherlock, there definitely would have been, but with Mycroft, he wasn't at all sure. Thus, the cigarette. Preparation for the part where the snowball went from rolling gently down the slope to eating up ground, and everything in its path, like it was in a race for its life.

"Not at present. This is who I am, Gregory. I might not always have been like this, but it has been many years since I have even entertained the notion of being anything else. Perhaps I want to spend this week relaxing, but that does not mean I plan to undergo an abrupt personality change."

"Okay. That's fine, then. So why are you still staring at my cig rather than looking at me?"

"I'm wondering if it would be impolite to request a drag." The answer stunned Greg for a moment, then made him laugh out loud even as he handed it carefully over. They took turns, then, tapping the ashes into the beer bottle in silence until it was gone.

"What happens now?" Maybe it should have been Mycroft asking the question, as he was the one who had next to no relationship experience—even including their exploits of the night before—but Greg felt compelled to let the politician lead. Whether they went back to bed, or out, or split up entirely was up to Mycroft. He had every right to change his mind about his invitation entirely, and there was still that possibility, after everything. He could want, now that he was over the first hurdle, to go out and explore, sexually, and Greg would have to be okay with that.

"Well, if you're amenable, I think I should like to take you on a proper date. But first, I would like to kiss you again, and perhaps take you back to bed with me."

Greg grinned, leaning in and accepting the kiss that tasted like nicotine and hope. Then he let those hands, elegant and strong, coax him back to the bedroom.


End file.
